


Possession

by echoist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Consent Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel reveals the truth about his brother, Dean has to make a choice.</p><p>A/N:  Written before episode 6.06 airs, to fill the kink_bingo square "consent play." <b>Please be aware,</b> this walks the line between consent and coercion on a couple of levels.  I feel like it resolves on the side of consent, but I wouldn't want to blindside anyone with triggering material.</p><p>Also, I basically wrote this on a dare, so YMMV.  Not my usual 'ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

 

 

Dean stopped, the key in his outstretched hand just short of connecting with the lock.  His stomach churned at the thought of entering the room.  He’d willingly ventured into burning buildings, explored stinking sewer tunnels, and kicked down rotting basement doors to shoot marauding ghosts full of rock salt.  This was different.  This was about Sam.

It was also possibly the dumbest thing he’d ever done.  Castiel had warned him – _too little, too late_ \- after dropping the bomb.  “I know you still think of him as your brother, Dean, but he isn’t – not anymore.  He hasn’t been Sam for a long time.”

“Fuck you,” he’d spat back in the angel’s face.  “How long?  How long have you known?  Sammy came back _wrong_ , and you didn’t think that was something I needed to know?”  He’d been furious, pacing the wooden floorboards, eyes searching and unfocused. 

“We weren’t certain until now,” Castiel explained, but Dean was already halfway out the door.  Now he hesitated, boots scuffing the concrete hallway outside the motel room he shared with his brother.  _Or something else_ , he thought, not bothering to be concerned with a target for the anger bubbling up to spill over and encompass everyone; everything.  If the angel was right, he had nothing left.   If he was wrong…

Dean had to be sure. 

He turned the key in the lock, sliding open the door with a soft groan from rusty hinges.  Sam looked up from a pile of books scattered across the small table.  “Find anything?” he asked, hopefully, and for a second, Dean could almost believe Sam was the same person he’d always been.  The same dorky little brother, eager and earnest and always at his side.  Something twisted, deep and ugly in his chest and Dean knew that even if Castiel and his angel buddies were full of shit, Sam hadn’t been that awkward little kid in years.  Not since Jess.  Not since Dad. 

 _Doesn’t matter_ , he told himself.   _Sam’s still your brother_.  _That’s what matters_.  “Yeah,” Dean answered, tossing his jacket on a chair.  “Maybe.” 

“Well?”  Sam asked, curious.  “Was there EMF at the site?  You think it’s a poltergeist after all or just –“

“I didn’t go to the house, Sam.”  Dean studied the oversized houndstooth print on the walls and wondered idly what the decorator had been smoking.   Sam narrowed his eyes. 

“Dude, you were gone for like, three hours.  Where did you – er, no, wait, that’s all right.  Don’t tell me.”  He wrinkled his nose in disapproval.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “It’s not about that.  I wasn’t out getting laid, and you know it.  I was –“ he balled his hand into a fist, licking his lower lip.  “I was talking to Cas.”

Sam’s face shifted into a blank mask.  “Alone?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean acknowledged.  “He said he had something he wanted to talk about.  With me.” 

Sam looked down at the book in his hands.   “Yeah, all right,” he muttered, eyes flicking across the page. 

“Seems he’s got this crazy idea,” Dean began, then paused, wondering just how in the hell he was supposed to broach the subject.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked without looking up.  _Fuck it_ , Dean thought, and took a deep breath.

“Yeah.  Seems the angels think you came back from the Pit with something else riding shotgun.  Some _one_ , as a matter of fact.”  Sam turned the page, running his finger lightly across the rows and rows of faded print.

“Do they really?” he asked, voice level and somehow … off.  Dean shifted his weight uncomfortably.  He hadn’t expected Sam to take the accusation so calmly.  I mean, shit, if the tables had been turned and his own brother had accused _him_ of bringing the Devil back from Hell…  Throwing a punch would have been the least of his reactions.

“So,” Dean began, gesturing awkwardly with one hand.  “I told Cas he was insane, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sam echoed, the beginnings of a smile teasing up the corners of his lips.  

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”  Dean asked. “’Cause I just told an angel to fuck off, and I’m not sure how well that’s gonna work out for me.”    




Sam laughed.  “Aw, Dean,” he said smugly, pushing the chair back from the table.  “You had a fight with your boyfriend over little old me?  I’m flattered, really.”

Dean’s jaw worked, soundless with surprise.  “My boyfr- what, you mean Cas?  The hell are you talking about?”  Sam stood slowly, grinning at the floor, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Oh, that’s right,” he said quietly, without looking up.  “See, I forgot for a minute that I’m the only one for you.  Always have been.  That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

The lamp over the table lit Sam from behind, obscuring his face in shadow.  Dean took a step back, putting one of the twin-sized beds between them.  Sam didn’t know what he was talking about; couldn’t know.  He’d never told _anyone_ , not even when he was bleeding out on the floor of a stranger’s house in the Pontiac suburbs, scared shitless and out of his mind.  No one knew.

No one still alive, anyway.  It had taken Alistair fifteen years – fifteen brutal years of inventing new ways to tear, wrench and break  before discovering the best kept secret of Dean Winchester’s life.  The miserable truth he had trouble admitting, even to himself, even when no one was listening.  The truth that no amount of frantic one-night stands and back-alley blow jobs had ever managed to erase.

“Sam,” he stammered.  “You’re not making any sense, man.”

“I’m making perfect sense, Dean,” he answered, each word a step closer across the filthy, threadbare carpet.  The heel of Dean’s boot hit the wall and he glanced toward the door, his eyes leaving Sam for just an instant –

Just long enough for his brother to close the distance, long fingers wrapped firmly around Dean’s neck.  He swallowed hard, the action slowed but not entirely thwarted by the force constricting his airway.  “Sam,” he gasped, struggling to draw a decent breath.

“What do you say we both drop the act,” Sam whispered, lifting Dean off his feet until their eyes were level.  Dean’s hands grappled with his brother’s arm, feet kicking the air in vain as an alarm sounded in his mind.  Sam had always been strong, but this was new.  New, and frightening, and - _arousing_ and he cursed the sudden flow of blood away from his brain. 

Sam smiled, watching the deathmatch of morality versus biology playing out across his brother’s face.  “Did you really think, all these years, he couldn’t read you like a book?”  He laughed, a series of brief, sharp sounds that echoed off the cracked and breaking plaster.  Dean’s vision swam, his mind telling him that something was wrong – something was more than wrong, and why was Sam talking about himself in the third person?

“That’s why he left, you know.”  Sam leaned in close, running the tip of his nose along Dean’s jaw.  He took in a deep breath, savoring the scents of fear and humilitating desire.  He’d always been partial to denial.  “He never told you,” Sam said, flicking out his tongue to taste the soft, wet patch of skin just below Dean’s ear,  “but he told _me_.  You’d be amazed at the things he told me.” 

Dean made a low, gruff sound that got lost before it reached his mouth.  He angled his knee for a sharp thrust to Sam’s groin, but his brother deftly sidestepped the attempt.  “All those years, in the dark, without anyone but me for company.”  Sam grinned, pressing his lips to Dean’s temple.  “Do you have any idea how slowly time moves in that cage?”

“Lucifer,” Dean gasped, digging his fingers into his brother’s arm where it still held him, suspended, half a foot off the ground. 

“Mmm,” Sam answered, flexing the muscles in his forearm against the pressure.  “That’s right.  Hurt him to get to me.  That’ll work out well.”

Dean cursed, spitting flecks of saliva into his brother’s hair.  His grip loosened, his feet stilling against the wall.  “Is my brother still in there?” he asked, teeth clenched, half the words lost to the – thrilling, astounding - press of fingers around his throat.

“Oh, yes,” the angel answered.  “He can see and hear everything.  A front row seat was part of the deal.”

“What deal?” Dean demanded, lips strained tight and bloodless across his teeth.

“That would be telling,” Lucifer answered, clenching his fingers until Dean broke with a strangled wheeze that sounded like a revelation.   

“What do you want from me?” he choked, teeth clenched against the pain.  He’d already lost feeling in his extremities; it was only a matter of time until he passed out.  He didn’t want to think about how many ways Lucifer could take him apart if he lost consciousness. 

“Dean,” Lucifer chuckled, shaking Sam’s hair into his face.  “Dean, Dean, Dean.”  He licked his way across Dean’s cheek, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth.  “I want what you want.  What Sam wants. “

“For you to –“ Dean coughed, the room swimming in a pool of golden stars.  “go back to Hell?”

“Don’t be silly, Dean.”  The angel whispered against his mouth, running his brother’s tongue along the edge of Dean’s lips.  “I want to fuck you.”

Dean’s eyes rolled back, his cock impossibly hard.  Lucifer had kept one hand wrapped tight around his throat, but the other slipped slowly down to his waistband, teasing the sensitive skin beneath his jeans.  “It was supposed to be you on the field that day,” the angel moaned.  “It was always supposed to be _you_.  When Michael showed up in that pathetic excuse for a vessel, it felt so –“ he pulled away, dragging his teeth across Dean’s lower lip.  “Anticlimactic.  Didn’t you think?” 

   Dean whimpered at the loss of contact.  Fuck, he thought, he actually _whimpered_.   There were so many things wrong with this situation, he couldn’t even count them all, and yet – and yet –

“Sam wants this?” he whispered, cheeks flushed and raw with shame.  Lucifer smiled, knowing capitulation when he saw it.  He answered by lifting Dean bodily, one hand still firmly beneath his jaw, the other hooked around the belt loops on his jeans.  He pressed Dean down into the mattress, knees on either side of his hips while the aged boxsprings creaked beneath their weight.  “I do this,” Dean began, covering his brother’s hands as they lifted his shirt.  “I do this, and you give up on the Apocalypse.”

Lucifer laughed.  Head flung back, grin wide, he tore the shirt off Sam’s chest and over his head.  Taking Dean’s hands in his, the angel placed them on his brother’s warm skin.  Sam’s nipples were hard and dark, flushed with arousal, and Lucifer slid Dean’s fingers across them with a wanton sound.  “I’m not giving up on anything,” he declared, towering over Dean; a dark shadow in the garish motel room light.  “But you won’t fight me.  Not this time.”

Dean turned his head away, biting his lip when Lucifer rocked his brothers hips against his painfully hard erection.  “You’ll stand with me, won’t you Dean?  Because I have _Sam_ , and he’s the only thing you’ve ever really wanted.”  Dean closed his eyes.  His tongue flicked out, licking his lips when Sam’s hands pushed up his shirt and a hot, wet mouth followed cool fingers across his skin.  He didn’t watch his brother unbutton his fly, just lifted his hips off the mattress to make it easier for Sam to slide off his jeans.  He heard a zipper, and the shuffle of discarded clothing hitting the floor, and didn’t flinch at the press of fingers against his ass.        

 They were cool, and wet, and slid easily inside.  Dean shut his eyes and opened his mouth in a whisper, a groan, his brother’s name falling from his lips again and again in helpless prayer.  Sam’s fingers turned, twisting and scissoring him wider, a bony knuckle brushing against his prostate and he arched off the bed with a curse.  His fingers gripped the coarse, stiff fabric beneath him, head snapping back against the pillow.  “Jesus,” he gasped, and heard the answering laugh from just above his waist. 

“Not even close,” his brother’s voice answered, before swallowing his cock between his lips.  He sucked, hard, and Dean yelled – he actually _yelled_ , his brother’s name in his mouth as he came.  Dean opened his eyes and saw Sam licking a drop of thick, white liquid off the tip of his finger.  Sam winked, and pulled his other hand out from beneath and inside Dean without warning.  Dean bit down on the cry of pain that rose in his throat, determined not to give Sam – or Lucifer – the satisfaction.   

“Turn over,” the angel demanded, and Dean froze, eyes travelling down his brother’s body.  He crouched at the end of the bed, hair damp with sweat and tucked behind his ears, face flushed with exertion or desire.  Both, Dean hoped, taking in the muscled torso, the cut of his hips, and the proudly erect cock, swaying slightly to the left.  He’d seen his brother naked countless times; close quarters on the road were unavoidable.  It still managed to surprise Dean, every time, that this part of Sam was equally proportional to his unnatural size.

“Now,” Lucifer growled, grabbing Dean by the hips and shifting him ungently onto his stomach.  Sam’s body shifted, long arms pressing down on either side of his shoulders, his thighs squeezing Dean’s hips as he pressed his cock between Dean’s cheeks.  He rocked back and forth, sliding along Dean’s entrance with heavy, shuddering breaths before pulling back.  Dean heard a slick, wet sound, then felt a small object hit the comforter beside them.  Before his brain could quite process the sounds into meaninful information, he was pushed roughly down against the mattress and split open in a haze of sensation.

Lucifer let out a hiss, sliding slowly in and out.  He rested one hand on Dean’s left shoulder, fingers drifting lazily, teasingly across his bicep with each thrust.  They brushed against the brand left by another angel, a lifetime ago, before they’d asked him to turn against his own. 

 _“He’s a monster, Dean.  Sam made his choice.”_ Dean struggled up onto his knees, hands splayed out across the pillowcase, straining back into each thrust.  _“You must hunt him as you would hunt any other creature that does not belong here.”_ Sam’s hands gripped his hips, pulling him close and shoving him away in turn, slowly at first but gaining in speed and force.  _“You have no other choice.”_

Dean had never let anyone else do this to him, limiting his seductions to the sort of anonymous losers who just wanted to be fucked and couldn’t care less who answered the call.  He’d never known he wanted this, never known he _could_ want this. 

Now that he had it, Dean never wanted it to stop.

Lucifer shuddered and groaned, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises against his skin.  Dean echoed each thrust with a wordless moan of encouragement, an inarticulate plea for more, faster, harder, right there, _yes_.  Don’t stop, don’t ever stop, god, don’t leave me again.  Stay. 

Sam came hard, the echo of skin against skin ringing loud around the room and in Dean’s ears.  They collapsed forward onto the bed, Sam’s arms wrapped tight around his brother, exhausted below.  Dean rolled over after a moment, slipping his arm around Sam’s waist and tucking his head beneath his brother’s chin.  He didn’t care how weak it made him look, only cared that after everything, everything, this was finally _his_. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered, voice shaking.  “Dean."

“It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean whispered, kissing the drops of sweat from his neck.  “I’ve got you.  I’m not going anywhere.”





 

 


End file.
